La La How The Life Goes On

Grammy Shmammy

Posted on: February 14, 2011

Yes, I watched the Grammys (as soon as the chill’ren were in bed).  Yes, I have many a beef with the outcomes.  No, I don’t really care, but isn’t it fun to bitch and moan about unimportant, mind-candy things now and again?

And so we begin with the love of my life, Mr. Ricky Martin.  Gay or straight, I am all about the amor for Ricky.  Listen, you don’t spend your Saturday mornings as a cartoon-watching kid practicing “tengo hambre, Menudo’s very hungry” without getting breathless over either  R. Martin or Johnny Lozada.  Ricky is the reason I managed to stay in shape back before the Dawn of Children Sucking The Life Out of My Workout Schedule.  Just try to stairmaster slowly to La Bomba; can’t be done.  Ricky is the reason the BabyDaddy put his foot down after the Grammys in 1999 (way back before there were babies or daddies in our lives) and refused to wear Ricky-style shirts I’d picked that were just that hair too tight for a straight man’s liking.  And so we come to Ricky tonight.  I give you I don’t even know what:

Dressed by committee?  The fashion version of a mullet (business in the front, party in the back)?  Victim of the worst clothing accident in history?  I simply do not know what to make of this vestido whatsoever. Ricky has always left me flustered and confused in a dreamy kind of way, but this outfit cruelly twists it,  giving me nothing but that “bad touch” feeling in my tummy.  Desgraciado, Ricky!

Next up, let me say a hearty mazel tov to Esperanza Spalding, this year’ s Best New Artist.  However, may I propose a separate category for next year:  Best New Artist You’ve Never Heard Of.  That way, the BieberFever people can get their swoon on, and the artsy, jazzy people-who’ve-heard-of-Esperanza can feel affirmed as well.  The Academy can thank me later.

Next up, I can only say that sometimes rock n’ roll should have a mandatory retirement age. Or, in Mick Jagger’s case, a mandatory must-consume-calories-so-you-don’t-gross-me-out regulation. I speak of course of the lovely Bob Dylan.  Unintelligible then, unintelligible now.  So thanks for coming out, Bob.  Come back next year for the Lifetime Achievement Award, after which you can recuperate, deviate, try not to hate, sleep in late.

And finally, I must save all my disapprobation for the odious Gwyneth Paltrow whose singing “career” tainted the otherwise inspired performance of Cee-Lo Green.  I recognize that I appear to have a personal vendetta against Mrs. Martin.  That’s because I do.  As you have gathered, I loathe many a thing. But perhaps I can countenance nothing more irritating than insincerity, which Ms. Paltrow has in spades.  One need peruse her GOOP e-zine for a only moment to understand the depths of this woman’s rank inability to just be honest about herself.  Perhaps I could be charitable and just call her offensively, comically clueless.  But take a read:  She and her millionaire friends are giving me tips on how to be a better working mom! Please note that no nannies, housekeepers or other servants are mentioned in these pages.  Please show me evidence that Gwyneth actually gets her kids up and dressed and fed in TWENTY minutes, all the while having time to shower and do her butt cheek squeezes simultaneously.  Please tell me how “having a trainer come to your house” is my best option for working out.  Let’s also rule out “getting a weekly blow-out” to save time on my hair. Who TF are these women?! And why does G. Paltrow feel compelled to tell me how busy her life is–all the while failing to mention the (I’m sure) troop of caregivers for her and her family who pull the real weight.

She should just be honest: I’m effing rich and my life is “stressful” in a rich person’s kind of way.  Don’t hate, just appreciate. THAT I could get with.  Contrast with Sarah Jessica Parker who is always careful to say that she has help, that she’s lucky, that getting back into shape post-baby was hell on earth–but easier with a trainer that she recognizes other moms don’t have.  Thank you, SJP.   Thank you to Elizabeth Hurley who, when asked how she was gettting her pre-baby body back, said, “I go to bed hungry every night.”  And thank you to Simon LeBon, of my beloved Duran Duran, who during a blog post on a trip to some far-flung location answered the question of why he stays in 5-star hotels when he travels: “because you would too.”  Honesty!  Sincerity. Self-assurance.  Something Gwynnie might gain if she would only read this blog and receive my helpful advice–along with my non-famous/working/two kid/middle-income friends–on how to save money on groceries while still ensuring your kids don’t get rickets.  Retweet this, Gwynnie!  Kthxbye.


2 Responses to "Grammy Shmammy"

haha! I love you. I always knew we were meant to be friends, but it’s posts like these that confirm it.

I knew you would go there about Ricky! Unjust adore him, but cmon! What in the world were those pants! And then with the cotton shirt tucked into them? It made him look like fat uncle who used to be in shape, and thinks he can pull it off, but can’t. Oy!

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